


Crossing the Line

by mesonyx



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Foe Yay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:07:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9527126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesonyx/pseuds/mesonyx
Summary: “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you actually happy to see me?” Nighthorse asked, while Walt attempted another swing at him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



The night air was cool and fresh at his home, and Jacob Nighthorse paced thoughtfully along his poolside deck, breathing deeply, taking in autumn’s crispness. But then, in the silver light of the moon, a shadow caught the corner of his eye. Nighthorse stepped back inside, grabbed the rifle he kept by the back door, and returned to the deck, cocking his gun in a natural motion as he went. 

Walt Longmire was already there.

“Goddammit, Longmire. I nearly shot you in the face.”

“Feel free to take aim and try again, if you’re feeling so inclined.” His voice was low and serious. Walt Longmire was a walking death wish.

“I don’t need your blood on my hands,” Nighthorse said, sneering. “Or on my deck. It would stain. What the hell are you doing here, Sheriff?”

“That’s the thing, Nighthorse,” Longmire said. “I’m not the sheriff anymore.”

Jacob knew exactly what that meant. Longmire had been crossing the line more and more often lately, with only his badge to hold him back from complete madness. Now that that had been taken away from him, there was no telling what Walt was liable to do. “I see,” Jacob said. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Nothing I’m not going to lose anyway.” Walt lunged towards Jacob, grappling the rifle from his grip and swinging his fist into Jacob’s jaw. It came with the force of blame, and loathing, and self-destruction, and nearly knocked Nighthorse off his feet. But while he lost his grip on the rifle -- it fell to the deck with a terrible clatter, but landed safely pointed away -- Nighthorse was determined not to lose his footing to this great hulking lunk of a white man. They grabbed one another by the arms, by the belts, by the backs of their collars, pulling and punching and kicking until they tumbled backwards into the nearby grass. Nighthorse could feel the heat of Walt’s breath on his neck, cheek dangerously close to cheek, a perverted performance of passion. They continued their skirmish until Nighthorse lay on the ground, flat on his back, with Longmire straddling him at the waist. Even obscured by shadow, it was apparent that Longmire was struggling with the tightness of his jeans, and Nighthorse saw an opportunity to take another potshot. 

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you actually happy to see me?” Nighthorse asked, and while Walt attempted another swing at him, Jacob caught him by the wrist before his fist connected with his face. “You know, if this is what you came here for, you could have knocked on the front door and asked me to dinner, like a normal human being.”

“It’s not like that - “ Walt began to say, but he groaned as Jacob ran his hand along the inseam of his jeans. The pulsing of his hardened cock betrayed the lie in his words.

“You’re in _my_ house.” Jacob wrapped his arms around Walt’s waist and pushed him to the side, forced him onto his back, and climbed on top. “Here, you’re not the cowboy - you’re the ride.”


End file.
